[My daughter will hate me for this one.]

Shortly after my daughter was potty trained, we found ourselves in a place that had no potty. She needed to go. Thus, her glorious introduction to the world of “commando potty.” She’s been fascinated ever since. Invariably, when we’re outside — at a park, on a trail, or even in her own yard — she’ll ask, “Can I go commando potty?” Of course, we explain to her that commando potty is only for emergencies, and only when a bathroom is not accessible. She can repeat these rules off the top of her head, but she still asks to go commando even when the requirements clearly are not met. She can be manipulative, too, as she understands that the definition of “emergency” rests solely on her. We’ve learned to be a decent judge of her wiles, and can generally decipher the real emergencies from the imagined ones. Today, though, she threw me for a loop.

“Mommy, I need to go commando poop.”

We were in my aunt’s yard, digging up groundcover to be transplanted into my yard. The kids were playing around and Zoe casually walked up to me with her bombshell.

“Zoe, really?”

“Yes, Mommy. I need to go commando poop.”

“Well, Greatie and JuJu aren’t home. We’ll have to go home to go to the potty.”

“No, Mommy. I want to go commando.”

“Zoe, you can’t go commando poop. You have to use the bathroom for that. Let’s get in the car and go.”

“No, that’s ok. I can wait until JuJu gets home.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Guise successfully unveiled. At least I thought so. A few minutes later she comes to me once again.

“Mommy, I’m going to have an accident.”

Oh, God. This is what I get for letting my three year old re-define the urgency of her bowel movements. “Have you had an accident?”

“No.” But time was clearly running out.

I looked around. I had a roll of paper towels in the back of my car and a roll of garbage bags at my feet. I could figure out a makeshift potty with these, I guessed.

We quickly went to work arranging clothing and bottom in the proper angle so as not to mix the two. With the utterance of the obligatory two grunts, the deed was done. Right in my aunt’s flower bed. Sorry, Greatie.

I picked up the proceeds, gave my daughter a wipe and deposited everything in a garbage bag. This is love, kiddo. Pure love. I now needed to get rid of the offending mess. I went to my aunt’s garbage can, but felt guilty placing it there, as they apparently had just had their garbage emptied. My aunt deserves much more than a full week of human shit stinking up her trash can. I had only one option left. My Subaru.

My car is loaded with shit, in the figurative sense, and it got me out of this bind. But I draw the line at loading it with shit in the literal sense of the word. Down went the hatch and the garbage bag was tied to the back of the car.

I can’t help but laugh at the guy driving behind us on the way home as he pondered, “Now, I wonder what’s in that bag?”